


Crossing Over

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2015 [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Crossover, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Potterlock, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lives between two worlds, and doesn't belong in either.  Hermione straddles the same two worlds, looking for somewhere safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hedgehogandotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgehogandotter/gifts).



> Day Nine of the Advent Calendar Drabbles. Today's prompt is from hedgehogandotter, who requested a crossover without specifying what to cross. Since I seem to be making a habit of updating the Socks and Malteasers 'verse only during Advent, I figured this was my best chance of revisiting this world. Hermione's italicized quote is taken directly from HP and the Deathly Hallows (though I've wiggled the action a bit in that scene to fit with my own).

“But what are you going to _do_ with your life?” demanded Mycroft.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” drawled Sherlock, stretched out on the settee in Mummy’s sitting room, feet up on the armrest and one arm dangling to the floor.  “What _do_ Muggles do all day long but weep over what they don’t possess?”

 

Mycroft breathed through his nose, clearly trying to keep calm, but Sherlock saw the vein on the side of his temple pulsing, and was pleased.

 

“You may not be magical, brother, but you still must find _something_ worthwhile to do!”

 

“Do you know what’s more useless than a Muggle, Mycroft?” Sherlock waited a beat, even though he knew Mycroft wouldn’t answer.  “A Squib.  _Me_.  At least Muggles know how to get about as if they don’t know about the magic running under their feet.  I can’t forget it.”

 

Mycroft sighed.  “We’ve hardly kept you unprepared, Sherlock.  Eton is the best training ground for Muggles in the country—“

 

“Train for _what_?” sneered Sherlock.  “A lawyer, a doctor, an Indian chief?”

 

Mycroft’s gaze was focused and laser-sharp.  “You are a consummate actor, you know how to blend into Muggle society better than some Muggles themselves.  You could do a great deal of good, you know, particularly given the current political climate in our world.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Sherlock, sulking.

 

Mycroft was quiet for a moment.  “I had a word with the Grangers, before they moved to Australia earlier this summer.  Would you believe they had no idea who I was talking about, when I mentioned their daughter?”

 

Sherlock’s blood ran cold.  “So?”

 

“I am simply saying, not every witch or wizard is lucky enough to have a daughter with knowledge of the Muggle world.”

 

“The Grangers weren’t magical,” snapped Sherlock.  “And what does it matter to me if the Grangers left for Australia?  I hear the weather’s lovely, and there’s things that can kill you ten times over before breakfast.”

 

“You were very good friends with Hermione as a child.”

 

Just hearing her name stung, but Sherlock would be damned if he let Mycroft realize.  “I haven’t seen Hermione in months.  I doubt she remembers me.  Stop trying to manipulate me into doing what you think I ought to do.  Were you hoping I’d go into politics and serve as the Ministry of Magic’s Muggle liaison opposite you?”

 

Silence, and then Sherlock chortled.  “You _were_.”

 

“All right, yes.  Perhaps it occurred to me,” said Mycroft stiffly.  “You must admit, it has a certain equilibrium to it.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

 

“It doesn’t matter.  All the Muggles could be dead in another year.  And me with them – surely You-Know-Who won’t care for Squibs any more than he cares for _them_.”

 

Mycroft went cold. “Don’t say that.”

 

“It’s true.”

 

“You know Mummy doesn’t like that sort of talk. You may be a Squib, but you have magical blood running through your veins.  You’re just as safe as I am.”

 

Sherlock swung his legs off the settee, and stared at his brother.  Mycroft was pale, his fingers ramrod straight and still against his knees.  His eyes were wide and he stared at Sherlock as if he wasn’t actually seeing him.

 

“Oh,” said Sherlock softly, “and that makes me sleep so much better in my bed at night.”

 

Sherlock stood and headed for the door.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Out.”

 

“Sherlock, you can’t—“

 

“You said I was safe, brother dear,” said Sherlock, over his shoulder, mocking.  “Magical blood and all, useless as it is.  Surely I can go out on my own without a wand to protect my back?”

 

Sherlock was nearly out the door when Mycroft spoke again.  “Sherlock – don’t.  Not again.  It’s such a waste.”

 

Sherlock stopped at the door and breathed for a moment.

 

“But at least it’s mine to waste,” he said finally.  “And I’m still alive to waste it.”

 

And then he was gone.

 

*

 

Tottenham Court Road was bright and brilliant at night, flashing with lights and neon signs.  The Muggles swarmed the pavement, every one of them walking as though they didn’t see the young man sitting in the shadows, watching their every move, soaking in their laughter and arguments and petty insecurities. 

 

Sherlock didn’t know if they saw him or not. The ones who did, their eyes slid right off of him.  As if he had the same magical spells on him as Hogwarts, and they simply couldn’t see him. 

 

It didn’t matter.  He had what he’d come to London for in his pocket, and his hand curled loosely around the needle and the packet, waiting.  He hadn’t taken it yet.  Wasn’t sure he _would_ take it, really.

 

He’d only taken it the once, during school the year before.  And in those long, glorious, golden-summer hours, he could not only _feel_ the magic that Mycroft claimed coursed through his veins – but he could _touch_ it.  He could play with it, roll it between his fingers, even if he couldn’t actually _use_ it. 

 

He could see the magic flowing in the air around him, electric blue and hazy violet, his companions breathing it in and out without even realizing it.  He sucked it down; it tasted like cotton candy and salted caramel, the crunch of an apple and the sharp tang of a lemon. 

 

It was blissful, seeing what had been denied for his entire life.  Seeing magic in and around the Muggles, as if they deserved it, too. 

 

Waking up, knowing it was still there, and remembering, was almost worse than having not realized it at all.

 

Sherlock watched the Muggles up and down the street, and wondered how much magic was in Tottenham Court Road just then.  If there were wizards mixed in with the Muggles, if he’d be able to pick them out.  If he’d—

 

There was a crack, just down the street from him, and then they were there.

 

Sherlock stared as Hermione Granger, in dress robes and flanked by her two friends, walked toward him. 

 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he wanted to stand up and reach for her.  He hadn’t seen her all summer, not since her parents had fled for Australia. 

 

She turned, and he saw her face in profile, the red and green and garish lights of Tottenham Court Road casting her skin in a strange glow.  She worried her lip, clutched her wand, but kept walking, seemingly without seeing him, her chin high, and her eyes scanning for a safe place to stop.  Behind her, Ron and Harry couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop asking pointless questions, and Hermione answered every one of them, distracted and worried and so clearly afraid.

 

He watched until he saw them disappear down the alley near his lookout, and his hand clutched the needle and packet tightly.

 

Hermione should have been safe.  Hermione was a witch, Hermione was powerful.  Hermione had all the magic that Sherlock did not.  Hermione… had friends who were dangerous by default.  And Hermione was much more Hufflepuff than she had a right to be.

 

If Hermione was walking down Tottenham Court Road in full dress robes, with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley at her side, then she was not safe.  And speaking to her would only make her less so.

 

Sherlock took the needle and packet out of his pocket.  He stared at it for a long moment, and then slowly began to unwrap it.

 

He didn’t notice when the trio came out of the alley again.

 

He didn’t hear when Hermione answered Ron’s question.  “ _I don’t know why Tottenham Court Road, it just popped into my head.  Surely it’s safer out in the Muggle world_.”

 

He didn’t see Hermione’s eyes whisk right over him, before she headed down the road, trying to find safety somewhere else.

 

The magic danced around him, firelight and silver flame, and Sherlock let himself wander through it, wishing it were true.

 

 

 

 


End file.
